


and everybody's got to live their life, and god knows i've got to live mine

by orphan_account



Category: Shin Megami Tensei: Nocturne
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-24
Updated: 2014-04-24
Packaged: 2018-01-20 16:30:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1517438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Missed connections, or something like that. Hitoshura is tempted with a moment of humanity; Isamu stumbles over his. (pre-true demon)</p>
            </blockquote>





	and everybody's got to live their life, and god knows i've got to live mine

"Look," Isamu says, frowning, face lit up in a red glow from below; he looks hungry, Hitoshura thinks. Above them, Hijiri breathes, slow and laboured. "What do _you_ want?"

It's a strange question--accusatory, he supposes, but sincere, or so it feels. Many things about Isamu work that way: an inclination towards distrust hand-in-hand with a desire to make sense of all things. There is a wall between them almost real enough to touch his hands to, and he supposes he knows, now, which has won. "Did you hear me?" Isamu says. "Are you listening?"

There's blood on Hitoshura's hands. He tries to think of Isamu with any on his--it's an image that doesn't quite work, stilted and awkward, pasted-together out of bits and pieces. "I haven't decided," he says, not quite truthfully but close enough.

"You--you don't _decide_ , Naoki."

"Maybe you don't," Hitoshura says. There's an odd feeling sprouting inside of him, something like anger, or sadness: some relic of the old world, dusty and profound. Hijiri's breathing has grown slower still. He's unconscious, Hitoshura thinks, or good at faking it. He isn't certain if he cares. 

"The hell does that mean?" Isamu asks--the distended flesh all down his front pulses and throbs as though stirring. It doesn't quite look connected to him. Something in Hitoshura imagines he should be disgusted. Isamu takes a step towards him and the sound of it echoes further than he can follow. "You're not better than me, you know."

 _Yes, I am_ , Hitoshura thinks, unsure where it comes from. He already wants to leave. He's very tired. Isamu comes closer; again, the echo trembles, off into the distance. The magatsuhi beneath them thrums. In its own way, it seems hungry, too. Hitoshura wonders if everything is, these days. He wonders if _he_ is. "Why did you do all that for me?" Isamu says suddenly, squinting at Hitoshura through the dark; he looks young, maybe, small. Lost. "I mean--what did you get out of it?"

Hitoshura considers this for a moment and finds no satsifying answer. _I wanted to see you_ : sentimental. _I didn't know what else to do_ : ridiculous. _None of this matters and I'm going somewhere you'll never know and I'm doing things you'll never understand_ : true, but too much. He hasn't spoken a word of what he alone has seen to anyone else and he doesn't plan to.  _I_ _was looking for Hijiri_ : the lesser complication, if still something Isamu won't accept easily. "Him," he says, quietly, waving a hand in Hijiri's direction.

"Him?" Isamu snorts. He always sounds so much surer of himself when he thinks he's on higher ground-- _I know something you don't_. "He's got nothing for you. If anything, I'm doing you a favour." Hijiri groans, stirs: sounds as though he's trying to speak but can't shape the words. His bones almost creak. Not faking it, then. Isamu laughs, and it sounds forced. 

"I mean, don't you realise he's been using you?" he says; there's a drop of desperation in his voice. He's no good at these things. He's trying to sound proud, Hitoshura thinks, trying to say _look, I've won--haven't I?_ It's almost sad. "Don't you realise I have? Don't you care?"

"No, not really," Hitoshura says, and Isamu throws himself towards him. 

His hands are blood-hot as they grasp Hitoshura's shoulders; his mouth is a wavering line. He looks _starved_. Hitoshura feels a cluster of skin grind against his chest and reels back, suddenly, strangely repulsed. _Isamu_ , he thinks, _Isamu?_ \--it's like all the pieces of a broken puzzle have slid back into place. This is Isamu and he is looking at Hitoshura wide-eyed and wordless as though they are seeing each other again now for the very first time since they entered the Vortex World. "Isamu," he starts, and then Isamu's hand is curled up into a fist, sharp and ragged, knuckles cutting into Hitoshura's cheek; it seems right, in a way, predictable, like they had been headed here all along. He falls to the ground feeling he is exactly where he is supposed to be.

 _You've made quite the home of violence_ , says a voice at the back of his head, and he can't argue. Again, Isamu hits him, breathing fiercely, then again, and again; Hitoshura sees and hears it more than feels. All things considered, Isamu still hits like a human. He isn't sure whether to be surprised by that or not. He'd been to the Labyrinth, just earlier this cycle, after New Kagutsuchi--his teeth and bones are all burning deep inside. The floor here is cold against his back and Isamu's hands are a trembling pink. In some ways, it's almost a reprieve.

Isamu's fist comes close to his face one last time and then stops--falls apart. "Please," he says. Hitoshura has no idea what he's asking for. Isamu is looking down at him, fingers unfurling, shaking his hand like he is trying to cast all the anger out of it, all lost in the face of what he was and what he is becoming; he comes down close to Hitoshura, so close their hearts could hear one another. His mouth is moving but no words come. He looks horribly lost. Hitoshura, for some reason he can't place and will never again think of, not once, is gripped by the urge to touch him. He wants to put his hand to Isamu's face, tenderly, like this world has yet to know--like he has very nearly forgotten all about. It could be his last temptation.

The strangest thing happens, then: Isamu leans his face down and kisses Hitoshura on the cheek, just at the edge of his mouth, almost right where his fist had been. His hair falls down in front of his face and his skin is sallow; his breath has a metallic edge to it. They are very still like that for a moment before Isamu moves. As soon as Isamu's lips have left him it is as though they have never been with him. The only thing that remains is a strange lump in Hitoshura's throat and an inexplicable tightness in his chest. He supposes he could live without things like that. "Fuck," Isamu says, swaying as he steps back, as though afraid of what Hitoshura will do now, and then, "I'm sorry. That was--"

"I've had worse," Hitoshura says, pushing himself up onto his feet, already realigned with the world. There are a few seconds of quiet before Isamu laughs.

"Yeah," Isamu says, "of course." He's smiling in a way that Hitoshura hasn't seen in the longest time--weary and sincere, wrapped in familiarity, something secret that relegates itself to a strange little moment at the end of everything. A minute ago Hitoshura might have found it pitiful. Right now, he has no idea what to call it. "Look, um, Naoki--you're sure you're okay?"

"I told you, it doesn't hurt."

"That's not what I mean." Isamu looks away, maybe in thought; his eyes are dark. Hitoshura wonders if they will ever touch again and is then struck by the sheer pointlessness of a thought like that. His chest tightens, further and further, until he forces it out of his mind--cutting the Gordian knot. "I mean, are you really okay with--with being _used_ all the time?"

"I'm fine," Hitoshura says, horribly, implacably certain of it, "trust me." He will keep going, he thinks; it's all there is to do. He will keep going and never again stop to think and to hurt and to want.

Isamu breathes out a weak little sigh but is smiling again, maybe, possibly: just barely. "Okay, then," he says, "I will," and Hitoshura wants to think for a moment he will be fine too. Hitoshura thinks of the sun and the sky when it was the right colour and the world when it was the right way up and of Isamu's face when it belonged to him and then the voice inside says _you can never go home again_ and Hijiri yells Isamu's name and the moment is over, it's all over; Isamu is turning, walking away, walking back to demons and gods and Reasons, saying "now let me show you the birth of Musubi" with a voice that is barely his, and Hitoshura just watches him go.

 _I know_ , he tells it, and feels that strange little momentary flash of something that doesn't belong go out as fast as though it were never here at all, like a star he is only just seeing the death of--and in the dark there is nowhere to go but forwards, on and on, forever-- _I know_.


End file.
